BRIE

          I have no idea how I've landed myself in this sticky situation, but here I am.

          I know Paige de Haan. Well, I know of her, and have never exchanged two words with her up until now, but I've just found out she can talk for five minutes straight without feeling the need to catch her breath. I've never met someone who can talk as much as me—possibly even more—and I'm simultaneously scared and amazed.

          For one, people like Paige.

          If there's such a thing as a popular kids' table in college—and, for the sake of not reliving my own high school experience at my grown age of twenty-one, I'm hoping there isn't—she's sitting there and gets to dictate the social hierarchy. She's charming and is everywhere, even when and where you can't find her, and, sometimes, it feels like she's better known than her own brother. In a world ruled by athletes, saying that is a big deal.

          When it comes to people like me, others just roll their eyes and pretend to listen. When it comes to people like Paige de Haan, the sea parts to let her through, and she doesn't even have to try.

          It's petty envy coming from me, in a way, as she's the kind of person I'd feel so intimidated by during high school—and I'll even go as far as saying I might still be slightly scared of now—and the one I've been aspiring to be my whole life. Knowing she's younger than me and carries herself with this much self-confidence, enough to allow her to immediately jump into a conversation with someone she has never spoken to, is upsetting to me in a way that almost makes me want to throw a childish tantrum, complete with feet stomping.

          Maybe in high school being around someone like her would fill me with confidence and inspire me to feel better about myself. Now, it makes me feel worse and inadequate, more than usual, as I try and fail to understand where I went wrong about this whole spontaneously talking to people thing.

          "For what it's worth, I don't know much about hockey, either," Paige tells me, once we occupy a concrete bench outside. Now that practice is over, I no longer have to subject myself to the biting chill air in the ice rink and can wait for Rhett on the quad, where the still warm afternoon sun kisses my uncovered skin, even if it's still early for golden hour. "Andy has been playing his whole life, but I just can't get into it. He tried Izzy, but she's more into wellness; yoga, pilates, green smoothies, that sort of thing. She runs a That Girl TikTok account."

          "That Girl?"

          "Green smoothies, waking up at the crack of dawn to be productive, journaling, more productivity, toxic positivity, that kind of shit." Paige taps her perfectly manicured fingers on her phone, then turns it to me to show me her sister Izzy (Isolde) and her TikTok account. The number of views on her videos and her follower count put the few hundreds of likes on my photography posts on Instagram to shame. Is there nothing about this family that won't make me look immature and like I haven't done anything with my life? "Our little Internet celebrity. Mom isn't that big of a fan—she thinks she's too overexposed for a seventeen-year-old who hasn't even graduated high school—but she can't force her to stop."

          "At least she's ambitious."

          "Yeah." Paige stuffs her phone back inside her Louis Vuitton purse, then throws her dark hair over her shoulder. It's still immaculate, in spite of the wind, while mine looks like it's never been brushed or styled even though I spent thirty minutes straightening it this morning. "It runs in the family. So, what are you and Rhett doing Friday night?"

          "No idea."

          It's true. With Rhett's head being all over the place—not that I've been doing much better after having been ghosted by my advisor—we haven't had many opportunities to discuss our plans for the relationship. Well, relationships. I mostly do whatever he decides to do, as his free time is much more limited than mine, and, with how childish I've been acting lately, I don't think I've earned the right to make those decisions in his place.

          We need to talk. I know that. That conversation at the coffee shop helped, in a way, but it also introduced new layers of complexity that weren't needed and aren't helpful, so we'll have to unpack that at some point.

          Everything I wanted to say came out wrong. I'm not looking for the version of him that broke my heart; it's him that I want. He's the one person I've always wanted, courtesy of his status as my first love and all, and, while there's a high chance I'll leave this fake relationship with a cracked heart, I know he's different now. I can't push him back to the past and make him revert to the Rhett from four years ago just because I need some intensity in my relationships that doesn't exclusively come from me.

          He's the only person who can give me that, even when he has changed. That's what I was trying to say, but I still screwed it all up. For someone who talks as much as I do, one would expect me to learn how to not put my foot in my mouth.

          "Well, I'm throwing a party and would love for you two to be there," Paige continues. "It's my birthday. The whole team is invited, but I'd love for you to meet new people. There's someone I've been wanting to introduce you to." She looks at me through her fluttery eyelashes. "I really, really love your work. I've been following you on Instagram for ages, and think you have tons of potential that you might not be investing in as much as you should. Think bigger than Vermont."

          I blink, heart skipping way more than just a beat. "You like my work?"

          "Um, yeah? I can't say I understand the technicalities of photography, but I love what you do with the lighting on night-time photos." She shows me a photo I took of Rhett during a date, face half illuminated by the scarlet lights coming from a Red District-inspired bar. Even though I took that photo weeks ago and had to stare at it for hours while editing it, not to mention having to be present to take it and witnessing the sight of him in real life, he's still so beautiful it hurts to look at him. My own sun. "Be there, please?"

          "Be where?" Rhett asks, slipping to my side so quietly I jump on my spot. His hand is on my waist, lips pressed against my temple.

          "I was just inviting the two of you to my birthday party this Friday. I wanted Brooke to meet Ripley and get some networking out of the way." I have no idea who Ripley is outside of Sigourney Weaver's character from the Alien franchise, so I just nod and lean into Rhett's touch. His hand is so warm, even after leaving an ice rink, that the heat seeps through the fabric of my knit sweater. "Be there or be square, Price."

          Rhett throws her a tight-lipped smile. "We'll be there."

          Paige squeals. "Awesome! I'll text you the details. Follow me back on Instagram, Brooke, will you? My DM has been sitting in your message requests for, like, a month." She dramatically pouts. "Bye!"

          We both watch her leave, the heels of her ankle boots clicking softly against the cobblestone pathways, dark hair swaying as she moves, but his hand never leaves my waist. This time, it's obvious why.

          We're still in public, still being watched, but there's a feeling deep in my gut insisting he needs my support after everything that went down during practice, so I don't even let the gesture bother me. Instead, my hand timidly trails up his back, feeling the sharp outline of his spine, and I can feel the tension emanating off his body.

          Hockey players exit the rink in groups—they never go anywhere alone, I've noticed, but Rhett is either by himself or joined by Andy de Haan—and some of them even give him an enthusiastic pat on the shoulder, along with supportive comments about how he'll get back on his feet.

          I was there. I watched him play. Even from a distance, even with little to no ice hockey knowledge under my belt, I could still tell he wasn't fully present, and he wasn't putting on his best performance. There are two possible scenarios.

          On the one hand, I've seen him do so much better and I'm certain he both knows it and doesn't need a reminder, especially coming from me, so a distraction in the shape of a birthday party might help. On the other hand, he's always been so dedicated to hockey and meticulous about what he can and can't do, so attending a college party filled with screaming, loud music, and alcohol might also not be the right way to get his mind off things.

          "Are you sure you're in the mood for a birthday party?" I ask him.

          Rhett shrugs. "Hardly, but it beats the alternative of sulking in my room all by myself on a Friday night. Paige seems to really want you there."

          "I'm not that big on parties. Besides, you don't have to go just because the entire hockey team is going."

          "Almost the entire team. I can't picture Andy staying for long."

          "She's his sister."

          "He'll stop by. Probably. He'll be in and out."

          "Ah." I should back away from him. It's just us now, but we're still embracing each other, and I find I don't really mind. A shiver runs through my body. "Who's Ripley? Do I need to do some research on who's attending that party just so I won't look like an idiot who doesn't know the it crowd of Bennington University?"

          He chuckles, the sound reverberating all across my skeleton. "You'll be fine. Paige meant Lucy Ripley, goes by Ripley. Obviously. They're best friends. Ripley's family is a web of nepo babies, all in the entertainment industry, but it's mostly on the technical side of things. Directors, producers, photographers, art directors; that sort of thing. Impressing her might be a good idea."

          "Any advice?"

          "Be yourself." He pokes me on the nose. "I know it's the most general, blandest piece of advice, but it's true, especially now. If you try too hard to impress her or kiss her ass, she'll see it coming from a mile away; if you walk in there and use your natural charms, I'm sure she'll be willing to put in a good word with her family. Networking matters, right?"

          I scoff. "There's no natural charm when it comes to me. It's all fabricated. Being myself doesn't impress anyone."

          "I'd beg to differ." He inches closer to me, like we're two confidants, and my pulse instantly quickens. "You've always impressed me."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I'm feeling absurdly jittery over a birthday party that's not even mine.

          I turned twenty-one back in April, honoring a sun sign as fiery as my hair, and celebrated it in a quite low key way by going home to my family and dragging my brothers back as well. Even if it's one of those milestone celebrations to most people, finals were right around the corner, and I didn't want to jeopardize all my hard work so far by partying too hard.

          My goodness, I really am boring.

          Meanwhile, Paige has gone all out for her 20th birthday bash. Like hosting her birthday party at her family's massive manor isn't enough to prove this is one of those big events you need to attend to be considered somebody, the commotion coming from inside stretching out onto the road leading up to the front gates and tall fence circling the garden. Even if there weren't tiny lights marking the outline of the pathway to guide people to where they need to go, I feel like it's an extravagant enough occasion that it would be hard to not figure out which house is hosting such an important party.

          There's something slightly ominous about the decor when you walk past the front gate and the security team hired by the de Haans checking the guestlist and scanning the QR codes included in the invitations. The party follows the theme of escape rooms, something I've never been too great at, and nothing about the balloons and strings of fairy lights provides any clues about what we'll find inside. With half of the lights inside turned off, the manor could almost pass for an abandoned old chateau if it weren't for the multiple groups of people hanging out by the entrance.

         Nancy is also attending, but she's here with her newspaper friends, so I figured I wasn't welcome to hang out with such an exclusive crowd. She didn't contest this train of thought, either because I was right when I brought it up earlier while we were getting ready—and downing tequila shots because, according to her, I was shaking at Chihuahua levels—or because it felt too awkward to reply to, so that's the theory I'm going with. At least I'm not here by myself.

          "Careful, don't let all that enthusiasm ruin the party for everyone else," I joke, gently elbowing a somber-looking Rhett in the ribs. He doesn't even budge, all of him hard, lean muscle and tight resolve. "Are you okay?"

          "I'm feeling a bit out of it, honestly," he confesses, and I believe him wholeheartedly. Coupled with his distance—which I now know to not be because of me—and the way he was behaving during practice this week, I'm beginning to think he's giving me all the signs characteristic of someone silently begging for help and not knowing how to verbalize it. I fear a party this size might not be the right way to help him. "I'm not really in a party mood."

          "We don't have to go."

          "Do you want to go? You're all dressed up, looking beautiful"—he gestures towards me, dressed in shimmering black clothes from head to toe, including the plunging neckline of my blouse, and wearing a shade of red lipstick that miraculously doesn't clash with my hair—"and you've been looking forward to meeting Ripley. Don't let me ruin your night."

          I try to keep a straight face, but it's strangely hard to remain impassive right after Rhett Price casually calls you beautiful. "I can meet Ripley some other time. I'd much rather know you're okay."

          A ghost of a smile crosses his lips, but it's nothing like what I'm used to. "Paige might be nice, but she's also unbelievably petty and can and will hold a grudge against you if you don't show up to her birthday party after she personally invited you herself. I think she'd make it extremely difficult for you to even be on Ripley's radar if you skip the party without being in immediate danger."

          He's half joking. That much I know. However, as a fellow petty woman myself, I know all about the lengths girls can go to just to prove a point, and I don't want to make an enemy out of Paige de Haan, out of all the people I can piss off in this world. Career opportunities aside, she's the sister of Rhett's best friend, and I owe it to him to make an effort to fit into his world, as foreign as it might feel like to me.

         I don't want to be here any more than he does, but he's used to this kind of stuff. I've gone to house parties, sure, but never to one this crowded or one that has been treated like the event of the century (part of me fears what will happen when she turns twenty-one), so, if there has ever been a time to act like I know exactly what I'm doing, it's now.

          If I want to talk to Ripley and be several steps ahead than I currently am, if I want Rhett to trust me as much as I want to trust him with my heart, I'll have to do this. Not every path ahead of me is brightly lit; some of them are shrouded in darkness and danger, but he's there to catch me.

          So, with that in mind, I slip my hand into Rhett's without as much as a second thought and we make our way inside. This feels right in a way that nothing else has in a long time—how long, I'm not certain—and I choose to cherish it for as long as it lasts.

          The first room is our first obstacle, the first puzzle we need to solve to access the rest of the party, and the door closes behind us with a click just as the lights go out. After being immersed in darkness for a full minute, a small red light gives us just enough visibility to find the outline of the walls and four marble pillars, standing on each corner.

          "This feels a bit over the top," I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself and wishing I'd brought a jacket or worn a pair of tights when a current of frigid air passes through me. I'm wearing tight, long sleeves, but the fabric of my blouse is thin (and, again—plunging neckline), and my skirt is short enough to leave most of my thighs uncovered.

          In most escape rooms, the gamemaster can see and hear the participants or find a way to communicate with them, so I'm assuming Paige—or someone from her inner circle, at least—is keeping an eye on what happens. It's an alien concept to me, the whole inner circle thing; I only have one circle, tight as it can be without anyone thinking of me as their best friend as vice-versa, and others can simply choose how close they want to be to different groups of people.

          "Paige likes to make a big spectacle out of everything," Rhett explains, circling the room. "It's an interesting way to go through life, to say the least. I envy her sometimes. I wish I could be that carefree. I'd love to not be so worried about everything all the time."

         "Is there anything I can do to help?"

         "I'm just checking every nook and corner."

         "I meant helping with what's making you feel like this." When he turns to look at me, I squeeze his hand a little bit tighter, scared he'll leave me and fade into the darkness, then soften the grip. He's not mine to lose. Not really. It's easy to fool myself into believing he is, especially when he's looking at me like this—like I'm everything he has ever wanted. "Or we can talk about it some other time, when we're not locked in a tiny room. I'm starting to feel a bit claustrophobic."

          "I'll hold you to that."

          Before I can say anything, something—or someone—comes running out of nowhere, growling and waving their arms up in the air, face hidden behind a tiger mask. Rhett jumps back on instinct to shield me, but I swing my handbag in an arch, letting out a pathetic little scream, and it hits the stranger right in the head. My phone and wallet are in there, providing it with some extra weight, and it sends them stumbling to the side.

          "Jesus Christ," Jeff Jefferson whimpers, pulling off his mask. "All you had to do was answer a riddle. My mask is the key. I don't want to get assaulted again, so let me just . . ." He places the mask on the pillar standing on the upper left corner and a click echoes in the room. "Don't tell Paige."

          "She's not sleeping with you, dude," Rhett tells him. "Give it up."

          Jeff huffs, holding the door open for us, and I mouth a quick apology. The bass track of the song playing gets louder and stronger, vibrating deep in my bones. "I'm just doing her a favor."

          He lets us through and we make our way towards the lights and the crowds, filled with people who haven't had to hit Jeff with a handbag to make it there. Rhett pulls me closer to him just so we won't be separated and I even find the courage to hold his arm with my free hand, feeling the outline of his muscles through his shirt. I'm glad it's dark so he can't see how violently I'm blushing.

          Once he finds a couch that's not occupied by people making out, I tell him I'll be right back to grab some water. Crowded rooms and colored lights aren't helping the dehydration brought by the tequila shots I had with Nancy back in our room, so I'm in desperate need of food and water.

          I trust Paige to keep the appetizers table stocked up so no one will go into hypoglycemic shock, so my mind is already daydreaming about the snacks I'll find when I walk straight into a brick wall.

          A Cole-shaped brick wall.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

hello! if you're here, mind if i direct you over to my ONC entry for this year? it's called HIT REWIND. if you like women, sapphics, sad girl literature, oregon, rewinding time, and/or life is strange, you'll probably like that book and it would mean the world to me if you were to give it a chance and check it out!